


After Dunkirk

by Transposable_Element



Series: Engagements [2]
Category: Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
Genre: Dunkirk, F/M, Family Drama, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transposable_Element/pseuds/Transposable_Element
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom and Dorothea regroup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Dudgeon, evacuated from Dunkirk, arrives in Dover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains one major element that is counterfactual (as opposed to just being a mistake, of which I'm sure there are many). See end notes.

**30 May 1940, Dover**

Tom stumbled down the gangplank and followed the Wren who was motioning men away from the quay and toward an awning set up several hundred yards away. It seemed a long walk. All he wanted right now was a place to sit—on the destroyer they had been standing packed together like sardines—and something to drink. Under the awning, some wonderful WVS ladies were handing out tea and sandwiches. “Here you are, ducky,” said a plump, grey-haired lady as she gave him a cup of tea. He thanked her fervently. The young artilleryman right behind him went further, proposing marriage. “Oh, love, if only I was 30 years younger!” the lady said, with a delighted laugh. Tom wanted to laugh as well. For the first time in weeks, he was reasonably confident that he wasn't going to die today.

Tom took off his helmet and sat on it. The tea wasn’t very hot, but that was just as well because he didn’t want to sip it. He drank about half of it in one swallow. It was one of the best things he’d ever tasted.

The problem was that once the worst of his thirst was taken care of, Tom became more aware of feeling like a drowned rat—an exhausted drowned rat, although one deeply grateful to be alive and out of immediate danger. His uniform was nearly dry now, but stiff with salt and horribly scratchy, not to mention filthy and rank. He wanted nothing more than to strip it off, but there were ladies present, and besides, he knew that anything he took off he would have to carry until they got to wherever they were to be billeted. And God knew when or where that would be.

He was half dozing when a Wren came along calling for members of the Royal Norfolk 4th Battalion. He scrambled to his feet along with a dozen other men, none of whom he knew well, and followed her. He wondered what had happened to his mates Thurston and Fitch. In all the confusion yesterday they’d been separated, and he had no idea where they were now. Still on the beach, maybe, waiting. Or on a ship, running the gauntlet of mines and Messerschmitts. Maybe wounded, or dead. Or perhaps they’d got out ahead of him and were lying down somewhere blissfully asleep. The Wren told them she was taking them to their temporary camp. They got into a lorry, waited for a while, and were joined by another group of men from the battalion. The Wren then drove them inland a few miles and deposited them in a field. Some other men of 4th Battalion were already there along with a few civilians (probably the family of the farmer who owned the land) and a couple of Wrens. They were putting up tents.

Tom looked around for something to do. He knew he would be able to collapse sooner if he exerted himself to help set up camp.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. It was no more than a tap, but it threw him off balance and he staggered slightly. “Well, if it isn’t the Outlaw of the Broads!” said a woman’s voice.

He turned around. The speaker was a tall Wren carrying a big canvas bag. Her face, like her voice, was somehow familiar. She was grinning, obviously pleased to see him. He stared at her blearily, and after a moment he placed her: one of the Blackett sisters. He had only met them a handful of times. They looked a lot alike, and he couldn’t remember which was which. “Peggy?” he guessed.

“No, I’m Nancy, you galoot,” she said, whacking him again. This time he was better prepared and managed to keep his feet.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Well, can't be standing around. Come on, you'd better help me hammer in these tent pegs,” she said.  She thrust the bag at him, and he barely managed to get hold of it before it slipped from his grasp. She looked at him skeptically. “Or, on second thought, you hand them to me and I’ll hammer them in,” she said. “No offense, but you don’t look as though you can be trusted to hit the peg.”

He opened the bag and Nancy squatted down by the tent. “Help me with this guy rope,” she said. Together, they pulled the guy rope taut. He gave her a tent peg and she pounded it in while he held the rope. She crab-walked to the next guy rope and he followed her, holding ropes and handing her pegs as she worked her way around the perimeter of the tent.

“This can’t be a coincidence,” he said, after about the fourth peg. “You finding me.”

“It’s not. Dot asked me to look for you,” said Nancy, “Of course I couldn’t really, I’ve been all over Kent the last couple of days, trying to find places to put you all. We’re going to have to start putting more men directly onto trains. But I happened to hear that your battalion was going to be out here, so I volunteered to come and help set up camp. I’ve just finished digging you a latrine—no need to thank me!” She looked up at him and grinned. “You’ve no idea how relieved I am to see you! Dot would never forgive me if we lost you.”

“How is she?” he asked.

“She seems to be doing all right,” Nancy said, applying her mallet to a tent peg. “Mind you, I’m no expert on that kind of thing…”

“What kind of thing?”

Nancy looked up at him, surprised. “Didn’t she write to you?”

"The post hasn't been very regular lately," he pointed out.

"But before that?"

“Of course. Try to stop Dot from writing…” He couldn't help but snort.

“Oh well, then you _do_ know,” she said.

“Know what?”

“Barbequed billygoats!” said Nancy—at least, that’s what it sounded like. Tom wondered if he’d heard right. Nancy sat back on her heels.

“Is something wrong with Dot?” Tom asked, anxiously.

“Not exactly,” said Nancy. “But, um…you mean she really hasn’t told you that she’s expecting?”

Tom gaped at her, again wondering if he’d heard right. “No….” he croaked.

“Oh no, I’m sorry…” Nancy said, clapping a filthy hand to her forehead. “She ought to have told you. And she ought to have told _me_ that she hadn’t told _you_. Galoot!”

“If this is some kind of joke, it’s not funny!” said Tom.

“No, no, I swear it’s not a joke. Honest pirate!”

“Oh, bloody _hell_ , Nancy!”

“No, really, I’m telling the truth. I’m sorry you had to hear about it this way, but it’s not my fault!” She looked him in the eye. She seemed to be in earnest.

Suddenly worried that he might pass out, Tom sank to a crouch. “Bugger me…” he muttered, rubbing his face. There could be no doubt when it had happened. He had gone to see his parents before he left for the continent. Dot came along so they could spend as much time as possible together. The last few nights before he left they stole out to the _Titmouse_ together, creeping back to the house at dawn. That first night they agreed that they’d got carried away, but when he thought about it later (which was often) he was pretty sure that Dot had planned the whole thing. There were a few Dot-like romantic touches that seemed unlikely to have occurred by chance: a window under the eaves of the boathouse that was usually shuttered was open, letting in a few rays of moonlight, and Dot was wearing some very pretty, and new-looking, underthings….

“Reminiscing?” asked Nancy, and he realized that he was smiling. He straightened his face. That had been near the end of October. And now it was…

“What’s the date?” he asked Nancy.

“Thirtieth of May,” she said.

He counted. “So that’s…seven months,” he said. He had seen plenty of pregnant women, patients of his father’s. Seven months. “She must be…oh God…” He couldn’t visualize it, but he knew that at this point she wouldn’t be able to hide her condition. Poor Dot, all alone. He hoped people were treating her decently. Surely anybody who knew Dot, or him, knew that if not for the war she would never have been in this predicament. “I’d never have left her in the lurch if I’d known…” he said.

“Well,” said Nancy comfortingly, “In the circumstances, you probably won’t have trouble getting a few days of leave. And a special license.”

Tom nodded and rose to his feet again. As he did he reeled, and for a moment everything went dim, but then he recovered, picked up the bag, and handed another tent peg to Nancy. He couldn’t think of anything to say. But a number of things that had seemed odd to him were suddenly making sense—like Dot’s not going back to university for the summer term.

“Just make sure you have the license before you see Mrs. Callum,” Nancy was saying, hammering energetically. “She’s not very happy with you! I'm told Dick tried to explain to her that it’s basic biology, that faced with the fear of death we have a natural instinct to reproduce, but apparently that didn’t help.”

Tom cringed inwardly. Dick could be a very clever kind of idiot. “Is that why Dot’s been staying with my parents? I wondered why. She explained it in one of her letters, but the explanation didn’t make much sense. Something about war work…”

Nancy nodded. “Mrs. Callum was angry, and some of the things she was saying about you were making Dot unhappy, so Titty suggested that she go stay with your parents….”

Titty? Which one was Titty? She was one of the Walkers, and Dot talked about them all the time, and he’d met them all more than once, so he really ought to know, but right now his brain didn’t seem to be working right. “How many people know about this?” he asked.

Nancy shrugged uncomfortably. “A few,” she said.

“Everybody but me, it sounds like….” He looked at Nancy suspiciously. He didn’t know her very well. “This really isn’t a joke?” he asked.

Nancy stared at him, anger and hurt plain in her face. “Do you think I’d play that sort of trick on a man who’s just come out of that hell at Dunkirk?” she asked. She looked away and hammered viciously at a tent peg.

Tom realized then that despite her lively, cheerful demeanor, Nancy must be nearly as exhausted as he was, and anxious as well. Surely she had many other friends out there, as he did: people on the ships, or still on the beach or the Moles at Dunkirk, or in the air (he'd been assured the RAF was up there, though it hadn't looked like it from where he stood). And Dot always said that despite her brashness, Nancy had a very kind heart. “I’m sorry…” he said. “Really. I…I’m sorry. It’s just…I really had no idea about any of this. It’s a shock….”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said, sighing. They continued, finishing two more tents before they ran out of pegs.

By then another lorry had arrived and was disgorging a load of infantrymen. Tom thought he saw Thurston among them. A Wren was shouting to Nancy, gesturing toward the lorry. “Sounds like they want us back at the base,” said Nancy. “But as soon I have a chance I’ll send Dot a wire to let her know you’re safe. From everything except Mrs. Callum.”

Tom nodded. “Thanks,” he said.

“I may not get a chance until morning,” she added, “but I’ve a friend at the telegraph office.”

“Tell her I’ll write as soon as I can.” He wondered how he’d get hands on pen and ink and paper. Well, somebody must have them. He couldn’t be the only man who needed to write home. 

“Get some sleep,” she said. “You look like you need it.”

He was practically asleep on his feet already. Perhaps he was hallucinating, he thought hopefully. But he didn’t think he could have hallucinated Nancy Blackett. She was as real as a kick in the teeth.

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Royal Norfolk 4th Battalion was not part of the British Expeditionary Force and was not evacuated from Dunkirk. They were in Norfolk doing coastal defense work at the time of the retreat and evacuation. I decided to bend the historical record here because the two Royal Norfolk Battalions that _were_ in the BEF, the 2 nd and the 7th, were decimated. The 2nd Battalion, which was a "regular army" battalion, was part of the rearguard infantry brigade covering the retreat to Dunkirk, and nearly all of them were captured or killed. (In one horrific incident, nearly 100 Royal Norfolk men were murdered after they had surrendered.) The 7th Battalion was part of the 51st Infantry Division, which was separated from the rest of the BEF and was not evacuated from Dunkirk. The men remained to fight in France, and again, nearly all of them were killed or captured. For the purposes of the story I needed Tom to come back from the continent, so I put him in the 4th Battalion, and put the 4th Battalion where it wasn't. I've also completely ignored the chain of command and Tom's probable rank (he's university-educated and would probably have been commissioned, but he's certainly not behaving like an officer here).


	2. Fallen Woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dot considers how (and whether) to patch things up with her parents.

**31 May, 1940, Horning, Norfolk**

Dot went down to the post office every morning and afternoon to see if there was a letter or a telegram. She knew that if anything came in they would ring the Dudgeons’ house, but she couldn’t help herself. This morning, by luck, she was there when the message came over the wire, and when Mrs. Watling handed it to her she knew from her smile that it was good news. “Sent in from Dover,” said Mrs. Watling.

TOM SAFE BUT SURPRISED REQUESTING LEAVE LF YOU GALOOT

There was no need for a signature. Dot stood there for a moment, lost in the intensity of her relief. It was a long moment before the inevitable thoughts about how she would describe her feelings began to occur to her, unbidden: _A wave of relief washed over her. Weak-kneed, she gripped the counter to prevent herself from collapsing to the floor…_ She tried to banish the thought. Sometimes she wished that she could just _feel_ things without wanting to describe them. She knew most people didn’t narrate everything they did, but she couldn’t seem to help it.

She looked at the telegram again. Surprised? Oh no! As she had feared, Tom hadn’t received her last few letters. _I ought to have said something sooner_ , she thought. She hoped he wasn’t angry. She puzzled for a moment over “LF,” then remembered it was Nancy’s telegraph abbreviation for “letter follows.”

“I’ll take this to Tom’s parents,” Dot said. “They’ll be so relieved!” She grinned at Mrs. Watling, who smiled back at her. Then, since running was no longer comfortable, she walk-trotted as fast as she could to the Dudgeons’ house, one protective hand on her belly.

**31 May, 1940, Kent**

_Darling, I only have time for a brief note, just to reassure you that I am whole and well and on my way to you. I have had no trouble getting a week’s home leave, as Captain G. says they are having enough trouble right now just trying to billet us all! He has also given permission for us to marry. I will stop at Westminster on the way up to see about the license and should be with you by Wednesday afternoon. I will wire when I know which train. Once I arrive, we can marry whenever you like, so you can go ahead and talk to the vicar, or wait until I’m there if you prefer._

_You should have told me, Dot. But all that matters now is what’s ahead. I love you, and now that I am over the first shock, I’m excited about the idea of a baby (you see, it’s still an idea to me, though I know it must be very real to you). Nancy says your mother is angry with me, but I hope she will forgive me and that you and she both believe me when I say I would never have left you alone so long if I’d had any choice. Please give my love to my parents and Ben as well, of course, and pass along to them as much of this letter as you wish. I hope they are being good to you, and that generally people are being understanding about the situation. Anybody who has mistreated you will have to have a scrap with me._

_Love, Tom_

 

**1 June, 1940, Horning, Norfolk**

Dot read the letter three times before relaying most of its contents to Tom’s parents.  Then she went upstairs to write to her mother.

Usually Dot had no trouble putting words on a page, but she kept pausing and hesitating and made so many cross-outs that she knew she’d need to recopy the letter before she sent it, or perhaps toss the whole thing out and start over. The problem was that she didn’t really know what she wanted to say. Since mid-March she and her mother had communicated only a few times, and only through Dick. Forgiving Mother for the things she had said and done over the past few months would be hard. But if she wanted to reconcile with her mother, at least to the point of being back on speaking terms, now was the time to do it. Difficult as it was, she had to try.

Dot had told her parents that she was pregnant in February when she came home for a weekend to celebrate her mother's birthday. She chose that weekend because she knew that Dick would be there, but later she realized it wasn't the best idea she had ever had. She also regretted coming out with her news right at the beginning of the visit, because the next two days were dreadful. At first the main problem was her mother’s accusations against Tom. Despite Dot’s repeated denials, Mother persisted in saying that Tom must have bullied her, or tricked her, or even forced her. The idea of this was sickening, and Dot said over and over again that it hadn’t been like that at all, but Mother refused to accept it. “How can you defend him after what he did to you?” her mother kept asking. Still, Dot couldn’t believe that Mother really thought that Tom had done anything so awful, because she also insisted that Tom must marry Dot as soon as possible. How could her mother want him to marry Dot if he had done anything like what she was suggesting? And how could she think Dot would want to marry him?

Father was no help. He seemed more sympathetic than Mother, but he had never been good at talking to his children about anything except archaeology, and he seemed determined to avoid discussing the topic. Dick, on the other hand, was wonderful. He took her part—calmly and purposefully, the way he did most things. He told Dot that he would stand by her, no matter what. He accompanied her on walks, often in the rain, so that she could get out of the house for a while. He tried to calm Mother down when her lectures began to turn from angry to hysterical. He tried to convince Father to see reason. The only time he lost his composure was during one of Mother's more impassioned tirades, when she was accusing Dorothea of lying about what had happened. Dick finally interrupted Mother, the first time Dot could ever remember him doing so, and said angrily that Dot had never lied to her about anything important before this, so why would she start now? Some of his rational arguments fell flat—using logic on their mother just now was a lost cause anyway—but he tried, and Dot was grateful.

But it wasn’t only her mother’s attitude toward Tom that had caused the rift. Dot insisted on going back to finish the spring term, over her mother’s objections. There didn’t seem any point in leaving university before she had to, and besides, by that time Dot was desperate to get away from her mother. Over the last few weeks of the term her mother’s letters became increasingly agitated, and as far as Dot was concerned, increasingly irrational. Before Dot left, her mother had been adamant that she not go back to university; now she was saying that Dot must spare the family the shame of appearing at home at Easter, since by that time her condition would be difficult or impossible to conceal. Just before the end of the spring term, her mother wrote saying that she had arranged for Dot to go away to a special house “for girls like you” until after the baby was born. After all, Dot wouldn’t be able to go back to university for the summer term anyway. If Tom came back in time they could be married, her mother wrote. But if not, they would have to find somebody to adopt the baby. Dot’s last direct communication with her mother was a letter telling her that when the term ended she would go to London to stay with Titty or Susan, and that if Mother had anything to say to her she could relay it through Dick.

This piece of defiance felt good, but since she wasn’t yet 21 Dot knew that her parents could force her to go to this “house” against her will if they were really determined to do so. When term ended Dot packed up all of her things, sadly wondering if she would ever have a chance to finish her degree, and went down to London, where she sat down at Susan’s kitchen table with Susan, Titty, and Dick to try to work things out. Dick thought that as long as they came up with a plan that would keep her out of Mother’s sight until after the baby was born he could convince their mother to go along with it. It was Titty who suggested that Dot ask Tom’s parents to take her in. Susan agreed that this was a good idea, and pointed out that if they refused she could then appeal to Mrs. Walker or Mrs. Blackett. In a pinch, Dot could continue to stay with Susan and her husband, Gil, although this wasn’t ideal as theirs was a very small flat. So whatever happened, she would not be out on the street. After this had been decided Dick went home to their parents for Easter; he didn’t really want to go, but they had concluded that he had to keep in their parents’ good books if he was to persuade them to accept Dot’s plan. Dot would write to him as soon as she’d received a reply from Dr. and Mrs. Dudgeon.

Of course Tom’s parents  _did_ take her in, and it wasn’t difficult for Dick to convince Mother to agree to this (indeed, Mother said that it was quite right for the Dudgeons to “take responsibility”). Dr. and Mrs. Dudgeon were much kinder to Dot than her own parents had been. They were less inclined to think ill of Tom, of course, and Dr. Dudgeon’s position in the community was such that they didn’t worry very much about what people in Horning would think. But there was another reason as well. One evening a few days after Dot came to stay with them, Ella Dudgeon told her that in 1916 she had found herself in much the same situation, although she had miscarried before she told anybody that she was expecting. The surprising thing to Dot was that the father of the baby wasn’t Dr. Dudgeon, but Ella’s childhood sweetheart, who was killed a few months later in the Great War (World War I, people were calling it now). Ella hadn’t met Dr. Dudgeon until nearly a year after that, when she was volunteering in a military hospital. When Dr. Dudgeon proposed, she told him all about the childhood sweetheart and the miscarriage; and Dr. Dudgeon said he was glad that she had told him, and that as far as he was concerned it didn’t change anything. (Dot had always liked Dr. Dudgeon, and after learning this she thought he was one of the most wonderful men she had ever known.) Mrs. Dudgeon said that even though it had been a relief not to have to tell people about the pregnancy, she had been sad about the miscarriage, especially after her sweetheart was killed. And Dot knew what she meant, because during the last few weeks, when disaster struck and it seemed more and more likely that Tom would not be coming home, she had clung to the idea of the baby as though it were a life raft.

When she had first suspected she was pregnant she was worried and afraid, but not ashamed. She wasn’t sure why, as nearly everything she had ever read about fallen women suggested that was how she ought to feel. It wasn’t until her mother reacted so badly that she started to feel anything like shame. There was no doubt that being browbeaten and scolded and told that she had disgraced the family affected her outlook. Even Susan and Titty had been shocked, and Susan more than a little disapproving, though that had not prevented them from doing all they could to help her. It was only after she went to Horning, where the Dudgeons treated her with kindness and sympathy, that she began to be truly angry with her mother. Her anger at her father was almost as deep. He had done nothing to intervene, but had retreated into his study, doing his best to ignore the raised voices in the next room.

And now, somehow, she had to try to patch things up.

It might help repair the damage if Dot knew why her mother's reaction to her pregnancy had been so extreme, but this remained a mystery. Mother had never been especially devout, so her objection couldn't be on religious grounds. She had never seemed to be all that concerned about social approval before now, either. Dot wondered if what really upset her was that Dot refused to blame Tom for what had happened. If Dot had allowed her mother to think that Tom had seduced her (or worse), her mother might have been mollified. But that wasn't true. She managed to stop short of telling her mother that it would be more accurate to say that she had seduced Tom; the idea that Dorothea had gone to bed with Tom willingly before they were married had upset her mother quite enough. Dot eventually concluded that deep down it was her mother’s fear talking: she was afraid that Tom would be killed before he could come home and marry Dot. This was Dot’s fear too, of course, and it was one of the reasons she had been determined to give herself to him before he shipped out. Even now, she couldn't regret it. It had been wonderful, even the first time—which hadn't hurt the way everybody said it would.

Now she wondered what to tell Tom. Not very much, if she wanted a reconciliation. There seemed no point in telling him about her mother's accusations, especially since she was half-convinced that her mother didn't really believe them. And if she told Tom about about the plan to send Dot away and possibly even take the baby away, he might never forgive Mother. Luckily she had told only a few people about that. So she resolved to be vague—someday she would tell Tom everything, but not for a long while. She didn't like keeping anything from him, but since the crisis was past it didn't seem wise to ignite a new conflict. 

As for Tom having a scrap with anybody who mistreated her, he couldn’t very well have a scrap with her parents! And otherwise, fortunately, there wasn’t much to tell. Dr. and Mrs. Dudgeon were so respected in Horning that nobody mistreated her or was overtly cruel; in fact, most people—Mrs. Watling, for instance—had been reasonably friendly. She had tried to ignore the few shocked and disapproving looks she received when it became obvious that she was expecting, and she pretended not to hear the occasional snigger or whispered comment. During the last few weeks, when the war news began to look so grim, even these had stopped. Few people had the heart to torment a girl whose lover was overseas, fighting. Now that Tom was coming home, she would go from fallen woman to romantic bride in an instant, and eventually someday, if they all survived, perhaps people would forget that the baby, or at any rate the pregnancy, had preceded the wedding. Not that any of that mattered to Dot. All she really cared about was that Tom was coming home.

Dot started a new letter and decided to keep it simple: Tom was coming home, the wedding would be next week, and Mother and Father were welcome to attend. What came next would be up to her parents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little unhappy about making Mrs. Callum into such a bad guy, but I wanted to get across that this what a serious thing this would have been at the time.


	3. Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude.

**5 June, 1940, Norfolk**

Tom’s train pulled into Wroxham a little past noon, and Dot eagerly scanned the windows, looking for him. There he was, leaning out and waving to her. The platform wasn’t crowded, so she was able to trot over to meet him as he stepped off the train. He let go his bag and embraced her. 

Him in his uniform, her with her big belly: surely scenes like this were being played out all over England, with men returning from the continent _en masse_.

She tried not to show her shock at his appearance. Tom, always so physically powerful, so blazing with energy, seemed depleted and fragile. But his hold on her was secure, and looking at his face she decided that he was seasoned now, no longer a boy, but a man—which was just as well, since he was about to become a father. “Oh Tom, I was so afraid,” she said, and then she stopped short. She hadn’t meant to say anything like this, had meant to be stoic and stalwart, but the words came out before she knew it. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“So was I,” he said quietly. And then he smiled and said, with a tinge of awe, “Look at you…”

She smiled. “Do I look radiant?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You do. You look beautiful, Dot.”

“I wrote to you to tell you,” she said. “Really, I did. But I suppose that was after everything got so…chaotic.”

“I know,” he said. “I got your letters yesterday.” 

They looked at each other and then they both laughed. “Oh dear,” she sighed. “Well, better late than never.”

 

Tom had been worried that seeing Dot in her condition would be a shock, but it wasn’t. Her face was a trifle rounder, her pregnancy obvious, but the changes weren’t as drastic as he’d feared. The funny thing was that he’d forgotten that she’d cut her hair a couple of weeks before he left. It was long in the photograph of her he had taken with him, though she’d stopped wearing it in plaits years ago, and so he’d continued to picture her with long hair. The photo, tucked inside his uniform jacket, was stained and discolored after its long saltwater soak at Dunkirk. He would have to make sure to get a new one.

“You didn’t come alone, did you?” he asked.

“No, your mother and Ben came with me. They’re waiting down at the jetty in the _Titmouse_. Your father’s at the military hospital in Kimbolton, but he’ll be back tomorrow.”

As they left the station, Tom stopped. “Dot, does my mother know about the last time you and I were in the _Titmouse_ together?” he asked. 

She smiled. “I haven’t said anything, but she may have put two and two together.” 

“Oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I suppose I’m just not used to the idea that everybody knows what happened between us,” he said.

She stopped and looked at him soberly. “They don’t know,” she said. “They think they do, but they don’t. You and I are the only ones who really know.” She squeezed his hand. “And it hasn’t been bad here, honestly. Everybody knows where you’ve been, and why you couldn’t come back before now.” Tom nodded and set out to face his family. 

His mother and brother were standing on the quay. He remembered how he used to call Ben “our baby.” He hadn’t thought about that in a long time. Well, the words meant something else now. His mother threw trembling arms around him and kissed him. Ben seemed embarrassed at being hugged, but Tom hugged him anyway.

Ben and Mother did all the sailing, refusing to allow him to lift a finger. On the way down to Horning, they told him all the news. Father was spending two days a week at the hospital in Kimbolton. This summer Dick was going to be doing war work at a factory in the midlands, but he couldn’t talk about it. He might be called up in another year, after he finished his degree, but his poor eyesight would probably keep him from military service, so he would most likely continue with his war work. All of the boatbuilders had gone off to one or another of the big shipyards. Bill and Pete had gone with their dads, but Bill had just been called up and was joining an RA regiment. Pete would probably be called up within the next year: shipbuilders and dockworkers were reserved, but only older men. Joe was still in Hong Kong, where he had been for nearly two years, working at the Kowloon shipyards. His mother was trying to resign herself to the possibility that she wouldn’t see him again until the war was over. Nell and Bess had joined the Wrens. Nell was stationed at a naval base up in Scotland. Peggy Blackett was also there, but it wasn’t until Dot wrote them a letter addressed to the two of them that they realized they had a friend in common (for one thing, Peggy had never heard the twins called anything but Port and Starboard). Bess was at a listening station near Harwich.

When they got to Horning, Tom found that so many people had left that the village seemed half-deserted. But Dot had talked to the vicar, and he said they could be married as soon as they wanted. The main question was whether to have the ceremony tomorrow, as soon as his father got back from Kimbolton, or wait for her parents and Dick. They didn’t really want to wait, but Dot had received a letter from her mother that morning, saying that she and Father would like to come to the wedding. Dot almost wished they had said no, but having invited them, she couldn't insult them by getting married before they arrived. So, after some discussion, they decided that waiting a few more days couldn’t hurt.

That night, after everybody had gone to bed, Dorothea tiptoed down the hall to Tom’s bedroom. She was prepared to make a case: they were going to be married in a couple of days, but this particular bridge had already been crossed, and everybody knew it; he only had a few days of leave, and it would be silly to waste them; his mother was asleep, and a few days ago she had volunteered the information that Dot’s condition needn’t stand in the way of “marital relations.” But she didn’t need any of her arguments. When she came in, Tom grinned and pulled back the covers for her. Later, when she mentioned that she’d been prepared to convince him it was all right, he laughed and asked, “Did you really think I’d _object_?”

 

**6 June, 1940, Norfolk**

The next morning Tom and Dorothea sailed up to Wroxham again to meet Dr. Dudgeon when his train came in. Mrs. Dudgeon didn’t think Dot should be sailing in her condition, but Dot countered by pointing out that taking the launch would be a waste of fuel. The weather was good, and Tom could sail the _Titmouse_ by himself if necessary. So Mrs. Dudgeon agreed.

They arrived at the Wroxham with half an hour to spare, and they waited in the _Titmouse_. They sat side by side on the thwart, enjoying the sunshine. Tom put his arm around her, feeling more peaceful than he had in a long while. But Dorothea decided it was time to bring up something she’d been meaning to say.

“Tom, I want you to tell me about Dunkirk. Really tell me, in detail. All of it.”

“Oh, Dot, I’m not sure you—“

“Don’t tell me I can’t bear it, Tom! It can’t be worse than what I’ve imagined—I’ve seen you getting blown to bits and shot and bayoneted and all sorts of horrible things. I want to know the truth! As much of it as you can tell. And if it’s all right with you, I want to write something about it for the _Express_. They want things like that—stories about the war, heroic stories.” 

“It wasn’t pretty, Dot. Most of it wasn’t heroic, either.”

“I understand. But I need to know, and I want other people to know the story. Besides, I think I’m getting better at seeing the difference between truth and fiction.” 

“All right. But later. Right now I feel too peaceful, I don’t want to spoil it."

"I understand. We should have plenty of time for you to tell me about it between now and Saturday. And then...after you go, it will give me something to work on."

"Have you been writing?” 

“Of course. Bits and pieces, mostly, but…please don’t laugh at me…”

“Why would I laugh?”

“I’ve started working on _The Outlaw of the Broads_ again. I took it out to look at it when I came home at Christmas. By that time I was pretty certain I was pregnant, but I hadn’t told anybody. I needed a distraction.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I hate to think of how you—“

“It doesn’t matter, Tom. It’s past.” 

“All right….Then how does the _Outlaw_ hold up?” 

“Oh…well,” she made a little grimace. “Keep in mind, I hadn’t looked at it in at least four years. Parts of it are better than I remembered, and parts of it are pretty awful. The best parts are the straightforward descriptions of the landscape, which is funny, because at the time I wrote it those were the duty bits. I think perhaps they were better because I wasn’t working so hard at them. But some of the high drama…well…”

“Too overwrought?” 

“Yes. And overwritten. But the interesting thing to me now is that in a way it all hangs together, even though in some ways it’s dreadfully uneven. I decided I didn’t really want to tinker with it too much, not directly.”

“I thought you said you’d been working on it.”

“I have been. But mostly I’ve been cutting and…it’s hard to explain. I’ve realized that it’s telling a completely different story than the one I thought I was telling. So what I’ve been doing with it is making it into a story within a story. And the outer story is about me, really, and you, and growing up, and falling in love. Fictionalized, of course. And it's still an adventure story, in a way. I’ve no idea if it’s going to work. It could end up an awful, pretentious mess! I’ve never written anything like this before. But working on it is…well, it’s been good. It gets my mind off how frightened I am. How much I miss you. It makes me feel as though you’re with me.”

"I am with you," he said.

 

**8-11 June, 1940, Norfolk**

The wedding was quiet, just family. Dick came up from London on Friday afternoon and stayed with the Dudgeons, sleeping on the floor of Ben’s bedroom. Professor and Mrs. Callum arrived by an early train on Saturday. Seeing the strain between Dot and her mother, and between his own mother and Mrs. Callum, Tom wondered for the hundredth time what Mrs. Callum had said about him, and for the hundredth time he decided not to ask. The Callums weren’t that far away, only in Cambridge, but Dot and her mother apparently hadn’t seen each other or spoken to each other since before Easter. Professor Callum was pleasant enough, but even though Mrs. Callum seemed to be trying to be civil, she kept saying things that made Tom angry—like commenting that she was glad that Tom understood his responsibilities, which made it sound like he didn’t want to marry Dot and was only doing it out of duty. Several times he had to swallow an angry retort.

On the other hand, Dick was perfect company. He seemed truly indifferent to social conventions or notions of propriety: Tom was his friend, and he was relieved that he had made it home safely; Dot was his sister, and he wanted her to be happy. He said he was looking forward to being an uncle. He had never had much to do with babies, but he had a theory that they were natural scientists, learning about the world by observing and experimenting. He also had all sorts of questions about Dunkirk, mostly about how the evacuation had been implemented and how various technical problems had been solved. Tom couldn’t tell him much about this, but he suggested that Nancy Blackett might know more. Dick nodded sagely and said he would ask her the next time he saw her.

After the wedding they had an early supper, and then Tom and Dorothea said good-by to her parents and Dick and prepared for a brief honeymoon aboard the _Titmouse_. They sailed down to the Ranworth Broad and anchored there for the night—but they slept at the inn at Ranworth staithe, partly because it was more comfortable for Dot, and partly because they had promised Tom's mother to sleep ashore in case of an air raid during the night. Then they spent two days together, sailing the Broads. They didn’t go far. They couldn’t forget the war, but they didn’t speak of it, and they didn’t exchange more than a few words with anybody else until Tuesday morning, when they called in at Horning so that Tom could check for a letter telling him where to muster. The war news was grim: The Germans were marching on Paris, and Italy had declared war. Tom was to report to Weybourne by tomorrow noon.


	4. Next Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war goes on, and so does life. Tom and Dorothea find new roles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excerpts from a correspondence.

**18 June, Horning, Norfolk**

_Dear Tom,_

_I’m enclosing a clipping from the Express with our story in it. I almost didn’t recognize my new name! I hope you like it. I tried not to make it melodramatic, but the episode with the boy and his father in the little boat that took you out to the destroyer was so heroic, I may have got a bit carried away. I do hope they came away safe, but I suppose there’s no way to find out, since you never learned their names._

_When I went down to the post office yesterday Mrs. Watling gave me a note from Mr. Lemmon, asking me to call on him, so today I went over to the newspaper office in Wroxham to see him (your father was going to the train, so it wasn't wasting fuel). He wanted to give me a copy of the paper and thank me again personally. He said I could write for him any time, which was flattering, and he also had a message for me. It seems he had to show the article to the Ministry of Information before he could print it, and when they returned it (with only a few small changes, luckily) they asked who I was and whether I would be interested in doing some work for them! He explained to them that I’m expecting, but they insisted that he ask me about it anyway. I have an address to write to and am trying to decide what to do about it. I’ve been feeling so frustrated not being able to do war work like so many of my friends are, and it seems this is something I might be able to do even with a baby to take care of (your mother, I should add, thinks I may be underestimating how much work a new baby is). In any case, starting a job just now, with the baby due so soon, seems a little foolish, so I think I will write and say that I would like to do it, but I might not be able to start right away. Of course, that may mean they won’t want me for the job, but I hope they’ll understand. I’m not even sure what kind of writing it would be. Mr. Lemmon thought it might be pamphlets or posters or even newsreel scripts, but he wasn’t sure. Meanwhile, Mrs. Bagshaw has asked me to write some pamphlets for the WVS about ways to save fuel and reduce waste. She said she hoped I could make a dull topic interesting. I take this as a challenge, and it’s something I can start working on right away. So whatever happens, it seems I will have writing to do._

_I had a rather upsetting letter from Titty yesterday. Her brother-in-law, Gil, has been taken up and interned. He and Susan knew this might happen when Italy declared war, but it’s still a shock. I hope he’s being treated well and I’m sure they’ll let him go soon. I can’t imagine how anybody could think he could sympathize with the Fascists, when he came here to get away from them! She says Susan is expecting, too. I haven’t written to Susan in a while, but I will now._

_Have you thought any more about names? I still like the idea of bird names, and I just found out a new one. Your mother told me that “merl” is an old Scots word for blackbird (she said she learned it from her grandmother). Do you remember when we went to see Wuthering Heights? Merle Oberon is so beautiful. Dick says there is an American bird called a phoebe, but I don’t think I could name the baby after a bird I’ve never seen. I think for a boy I would prefer Robin—so no more jokes about Coot or Duck, please! I don’t want to regret having told you about Peter Duck._

_I wonder how long it will be before you are shipped out again. Perhaps you will still be here when the baby is born and will be able to get leave to come see us. I hope so._

_All my love, Dot_

**20 June, Weybourne, Norfolk**

_Dear Dot,_

_A few days ago Captain Godwin announced to the company that the Royal Army is calling for volunteers for new units with extra training in things like hand-to-hand combat, for special missions. I’m not sure exactly what kind of missions—raids on enemy territory, or sabotage, or rescues, I suppose. I didn’t give it much thought until Captain G. called me in to see him yesterday. He said he thinks I’m the sort of man they’re looking for, and I ought to consider volunteering. I was flattered, of course, and I must admit it sounds more interesting than the infantry. But I thought you might think it was too dangerous, so I told him I’d have to think about it. I’d like to volunteer, but I won’t do it if you say no. He said it would be all right to write to you about it if I kept it general, so I hope all of this will get past the censor._

_Right now we are busy with coastal defense work, but I suppose I oughtn’t to say much about that in a letter, either. In any case, it’s dull. I miss you. If I am still here when the baby is born, I don’t suppose it will be much trouble to get a day or two of leave._

_I like the name Merle very much. Of course I remember going to see Wuthering Heights. I didn’t think you liked it very much, though, you said it wasn’t true to the book. “The wrong sort of romantic,” I think you said. I’m afraid I don't remember the film itself very well as I was distracted by the fact that you were sitting there in the dark next to me. I hope I’m not shocking you._

_Love, Tom_

 

**June 22, 1940. Horning, Norfolk**

_Dear Tom,_

_Thank you for asking my opinion, but you ought to know that I would never stand in the way of your doing something you really wanted to do. Of course this special assignment sounds dangerous, but it’s not as though the infantry is safe! We’re all in danger. Civilians, too. It’s hard to believe that the Germans would want to bomb Norwich, but anywhere on the coast is a target, and London, and every other big city. That doesn’t leave many safe places in England. Nobody is safe in wartime, or in peacetime, either._

_I hope that doesn’t sound fatalistic, I don’t mean it to be. I’m just trying to say that choosing the safest option doesn’t seem very realistic just now. If you’re going to be out there fighting, I’d rather you were doing something that really suits you. This sounds more like you: not so regular army, not so “by the book.” I think you’d be good at it. It sounds thrilling!_

_I keep thinking of the first time I ever saw you. You were running down the train platform, and you tripped and dropped your things and recovered immediately, but by then the train was moving, so you chased it and threw your things into our compartment and threw yourself in after! I was so impressed by how well you managed it—I think I may have fallen in love with you right then, though I was too young to understand my feelings. What you did then was the kind of thing my mother would say was reckless, but it wasn’t reckless at all, because you knew you could do it. I’ve seen you when you were less certain about something, and you were generally much more cautious. I think you have a very good sense of your own abilities. When you know you can do something, you don’t hesitate. I expect that’s exactly the kind of man they’re looking for._

_I am working away on the pamphlets for Mrs. Bagshaw. I’m sure this kind of writing will be good for me in the long run, because it’s all so very concrete. The trouble is I keep trying to make it into a story. I insert characters and then have to take them out. I thought of inventing a villain named Fritz to represent Waste—but then I think about my friend Margaret Hoffman, who’s an English girl with a German grandfather, and I wonder if it’s a good idea to portray the Germans as demons in human form. They can’t all be like that. Perhaps I’d do better to create a plucky heroine doing her bit on the Home Front. I wonder how well that would go over with Mrs. B._

_I’m glad you like the name Merle. Then we’re agreed—Robin for a boy, Merle for a girl (I didn’t intend that rhyme, it just happened to happen). I’m not shocked by your thoughts during the movie. I was having them, too! I have them even more now that I have Experience. I do miss you…._

_Love, Dot_

 

**18 July, 1940. Horning, Norfolk**

Ella Dudgeon to Tom Dudgeon:

HEALTHY GIRL DOT AND BABY WELL LOVE FROM ALL

 

Tom Dudgeon to Ella Dudgeon:

48 HOUR LEAVE ARRIVE WROXHAM EARLY TRAIN TOMORROW

 

**23 July 1940. Weymouth, Dorset.**

_Dear Dot,_

_That is not mistake, I’m in Weymouth, not Weybourne! When I got back to Weybourne I found a message telling me to report to Weymouth for training by 21 July. This is for the volunteer assignment we discussed. It was a scramble to get here in time (I arrived quite late) and I haven’t had a moment to write to you until this evening. It is lucky Merle was born a couple of weeks early, otherwise I might not have been able to see her for quite a while. I don’t know when I’ll next be able to get leave._

_If the first day is any indication, training will be quite strenuous but it is much more interesting than what I was doing before. The men are interesting, too—all kinds. I am not living in a camp or barracks as we are all supposed to find our own billets in town. I have a daily allowance and a ration card. Weymouth is a seaside resort, but there are no holiday-makers, of course, so I have had no trouble finding a boarding house. I will write as often as I can. Please tell me how Merle is doing and send a photograph as soon as you have one, which I suppose will be after Dick visits. I am glad you are getting on so well with my parents, and I know my mother will be a great help in taking care of Our Baby, but the more I think about it, the more I think you should take your mother up on her offer to come and stay for a bit. I think she wants to make amends, and I think perhaps you should let her._

_I know the war news sounds bad, but I don’t believe the Germans will manage to invade England. God knows how long the war will last, but the next time I face the enemy I will be better prepared. So much has happened, so many changes, that it’s hard to believe what a short time has passed since Dunkirk. If you had told me two months ago everything that has happened since, I would not have believed you. But I would have been very glad to know about being married and a father. I have more to fight for now, and more to live for, as well._

_All my love, Tom_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not clear what Tom is training for: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2261277


End file.
